


Dawning

by Lipstickcat



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipstickcat/pseuds/Lipstickcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU zombie!verse fic that I wrote a few years ago. </p><p>This is angsty, involves character death, gore, and children. Its not a happy fic. Written for dial_a_psychic, because I give the nicest gifts to the people I love ;P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawning

Nobody wants to go to a crime scene at a school. You don’t need powers of premonition to know that what you’re about to see is going to haunt your dreams for years to come, another thing to add to the list of reasons you need to drink at night. 

Since the outbreak, things have only gotten worse. The virus colors every crime scene; in some cases just in the periphery, simply a case of taking extra uniform officers to keep the area secure. Everyone on the force is expected to keep even higher standards of accuracy on the range these days, even the rookies, if they want to stay on the right side of a cop’s firearm. But more and more often, the case _is_ the virus, and there’s only one thing you can do when you’re called to that kind of scene. There’s less and less need for actual detective work these days, and they’ve lost men senior to Carlton who just can’t hack all the bloodshed that comes with the job now. 

Still, even though he knew what to expect before he even set foot on the brightly painted, and now blood splattered, playground concrete, he didn’t even know the half of it…

The classroom where it all started was cheerily decorated with large cardboard cut-outs of animals; a jungle scene with lions and giraffes, monkey’s swinging from high up on the wall. Lower down on the worktops there was a display of items arranged by color. The class gerbil ran on his wheel, oblivious to the thick splatters across the glass of his tank. There was an apple on the desk, green and dark red. 

Carlton didn’t really want to look at the floor, at the sparse but violent carnage. An optimistic onlooker would have assumed that in a pre-school class of sixteen, the four small, twisted and shredded bodies would mean twelve survivors, but Carlton saw the dark cavities in their skulls and knew that there were none. 

At least most of the rest of the school had gotten out. Some children had been hurt in the panic, a few cuts and broken bones. A few “carers” who wouldn’t again be left in charge of the defenceless who relied on them to help, not trample them. Some unexpected heroes; dinner ladies and janitors who went back to help get the kids out. When instinct kicks in, the things you do can be surprising to even yourself. 

“Go and check over there, O’Hara.” He pointed to the teacher’s desk as he made his way to the open carpeted area where the bodies lay. He couldn’t protect his junior from seeing horrendous crime scenes, and he always believed that he shouldn’t, not if she was to make the fine detective he knew she had the potential to be, but she didn’t need to see dead children so closely. Not when he already knew that they would learn no more from them. 

The exposed edges of bone were licked clean, the off white skull stark and brighter than it really was against the drying blood around it. Tiny scratches and chips looked like teeth marks, like it had been gnawed. He felt a little nauseous and began to stand, already dreading having to call in parents to ID their children. But the parents that these kids belonged to were the lucky ones. 

“… Carlton?” 

He looked up sharply at the softness of his partner’s voice. He hated it when she was uncertain, she was normally so strong, all business when it counted. 

She held up the role call that had been sitting on the teacher’s desk. Squinting, he had to step closer to read the name of the teacher on the front. 

_Miss Lytar._

“Fuck.” It was an unprofessional utterance, but no one in the room even spared him a glance. Given the situation, he could have been forgiven for saying far worse. 

He knew exactly what scene he would walk out on before he even left the classroom with O’Hara. If the situation had been lighter, he would have had a poke at Shawn, teasing that maybe he was psychic now as well, but he didn’t feel like poking, especially as Shawn was there as he expected, battling to get past McNab, who wore the expression of a determined and miserable bloodhound. 

“Spencer, calm down!” He used his firm voice, but of course it went straight through the younger man. 

Shawn barely seemed aware that he was even there, pushing and bouncing and shoving at the solid obstruction of the biggest man on the force. He wasn’t battling to get into the classroom, though; he was trying to get further down the hallway. Carlton followed his gaze to the end of the corridor and saw what Shawn saw. The door was closed, but the glass panel showed everything. The tiny hands against the glass, smearing streaks of blood with soft, high pitched shrieks. Young faces with dead eyes, gazing hungrily at the gathering of wary people watching them back. Torn flesh and gore splattered mouths. 

The zombie children knew they were there, they were hammering against the door and the glass. They would get through eventually, but they wouldn’t get far; a row of officers were already in position, guns poised, and Carlton had every faith that his men would take them out before they even got close. 

It was the figure that towered over the undead children that chilled his blood, though. Abigail Lytar stood back from the swarming crowd of her charges, she didn’t push to get through to the front, she almost even seemed serene. However, Carlton could see the bloody mats in her once glossy caramel hair, he could see the deep bites on her exposed arms, the glassy, famished look in her eyes as she stared back at them. 

He could easily piece it together – An infected child had arrived at the playgroup and attacked another child. She had gotten between them to break it up and been bitten in the process. All hell had broken loose in the confinement of the classroom. Now she was playing the role of an adult career to these fledging zombies. 

A scientist would have been fascinated by this apparent “nanny system” among creatures that so far hadn’t been credited with any reasonable operating systems. But Carlton didn’t give a crap. All he cared about was that Shawn was beginning to flag in his struggles, his cries to be let through becoming sobs. 

The door made an audible crack, a large splinter of wood giving way like a thin trapdoor, and a small, podgy arm snuck through, clawed fingers raking blindly at the thin air. This progress seemed to fire the rest of the children up, and soon a loose fist swung through the window, not noticing or caring for the shards of glass cutting through the greying skin. 

“Steady yourselves,” Carlton commanded as he retrieved his own glock from its holster, although he didn’t need to tell his men, they were already primed. 

“… Carlton…” Shawn’s voice was a harsh whisper. If it had been anyone else, Carlton wouldn’t have taken his eyes away from his targets, but for Shawn…

He turned to look at the psychic. He’d stopped fighting and was now standing, looking so much smaller than Carlton had ever seen him before. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and he held his hand out to the detective. 

“… Let me…” 

Carlton glanced back to the door’s final shudders as more and more shards of glass and wood fell to the floor, hands and heads squeezing their way through the gaps like wriggling parasites. He nodded to Shawn and handed him his gun without question. 

One last crack and what was left of the door gave on its hinges. The undead swarmed forward, stumbling misleadingly at the sudden lack of resistance, but they quickly found their feet, rushing forward with enthusiasm for the meals they could see kneeling at just their height. The movies always got that part wrong; they could run if they wanted to. The officers began to fire off round after round and clean headshots began to slow the children down as the bodies fell. 

Carlton didn’t watch the massacre. He watched as Shawn quickly scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, clearing his vision. He watched as he set his jaw so hard that it must have hurt. He watched the deep intake of breath and then the slow exhale, the determination not to shut his eyes as he squeezed the trigger. He heard the shot, followed by the pained whimper that Shawn let out, quickly turning away to bury his head in the crook of his elbow. Guster rushed forwards to gather his friend up and wrap his arms around him. 

Carlton glanced back down the corridor. The zombies were all fallen. His men were already moving forward to make second head shots at close range to make sure they didn’t get back up again. “Double tapping” they called it. He could see that Abigail had barely moved through the doorway before Shawn had shot her. 

He turned back to Shawn, first carefully prising his firearm from his grip, then giving him a pat on his back. Guster had a better idea how to comfort his friend than he did, but tonight he’d get in an extra bottle of scotch in case Shawn needed it. They all needed to drink at night these days. 

***


End file.
